Choked Up (24 page)

Read Choked Up Online

Authors: Janey Mack

BOOK: Choked Up
4.84Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Chapter 35
A day without Stannis meant a day without dressing up. Caterpillar work boots, jeans, a black Army Ranger T-shirt, and a black Windbreaker. Gorilla bodyguard or not, I had my Kimber Solo in my bra holster and a Kubotan in my back pocket.
I also had another $1,200 to give Leticia.
Gorilla opened the rear passenger door of the Range Rover. I thought it was ridiculous to ride in the back, but he made it clear that's where I was to be. He crowded me in and out of the car like he was Secret Service, moving from side to side behind me as we entered the Traffic Enforcement Bureau.
“Really, I'm safe here. Why don't you go back to the car?”
Gorilla dug his heels in. “I make certain everything is as it should be.”
“Okay-doke.” We clipped along to Leticia's open office door. She had her feet on the desk, eating a Taco Bell
A.M.
Crunchwrap and listening to Rush Limbaugh. “Yo, McGrane! Lookit you, dropping in like an angel of mercy an' shit.”
That doesn't sound good.
Gorilla stepped forward and extended a hand. “Lovely to see you again, Miss Jackson.”
Check the building, my bare butt.
She extended her hand. He bent and kissed her dimpled knuckles. “I am sure you do not remember me. I am Ivanović.”
“I know who you are.”
“I have thought of nothing but you for many days.”
Leticia actually blushed. “You cupcaking me?”
“Yes?” Gorilla said warily. “If you mean to ask on date?”
Her shoulders began to undulate. “Oh, we'll have us a date.” She pulled her hand from his and waved him out the door with a handful of neon lilac square-tipped nails. “You run along now, let me talk to McGrane.”
Gorilla left, closing the door behind him.
“I know you be workin' some big chip angle, but you wanna make some serious OT?”
Good Lord, no!
“Doing what?” I asked politely.
“You know how they have all them car shows and auctions at McCormick Place Convention Center?”
“Sure.”
“Somethin' went bootsie, cuz now the muscle car guys gonna roll it all outside in a couple weeks. Not sure where yet, but I need some quality peeps who can boot at the ready.”
Gee, sorry, Leticia. I think I'll take a pass. I'm trying to stop doing things that make me want to kill myself.
Subject change. I set the envelope of cash onto her desk. “For next week.”
“About that . . .” A speculative gleam danced in her eye. “When we tearing this towing op up? It's time for me to go on TV again.”
“Uh . . .”
“McGrane. You think they don't got no seat belts on the milk truck? How stupid you think I am? I don't know what shit you got goin' on with that tow truck, but them bonuses are the only thing keeping my retention rate outta the toilet.”
“Leticia, I'm sorry I—”
She raised her hands in front of her face. “Don't wanna hear it.” She dropped her hands, picked up her drink, and took a slurp. “You give me a week heads-up afore it stops, we take us a field trip, and we be chill as Otter Pops.”
“So what's with the uniform?”
Leticia wiggled her brows and pressed the intercom button on the telephone. “Agent Sanchez, please report to my office.”
Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?
Leticia stuffed the last bite of Crunchwrap in her mouth, screwed up the wrapper, and tossed it in the trash. “We found 'em.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Those Robin McHoodie cart-egging, meter-payin' motherbitches,” Sanchez spat from behind me. “What's
pendeja
doin' here?”
“She can handle.” Leticia swung her feet off the desk and stood up. “Plus she all up with the cops 'n' shit.”
“Cops?” I said.
“We gonna go all bounty-hunter militia on their ass and citizen's arrest 'em.”
Sanchez smacked her fist into her palm. “Can't fuckin' wait.” She wore a roll of duct tape around her wrist like a giant bracelet.
A low curtsy to the Queen Mary of all bad ideas.
“Uh, guys. That's not how this works. At all.” I rubbed my forehead. “This is breaking and entering, kidnapping, assault.”
“We don't need this friggin' pussy-ho,” Sanchez said.
“Oh, they're gonna go nice and peaceful-like, won't they, McGrane?”
Cat wrangling at its finest—keeping Leticia and Sanchez out of jail.
Leticia tipped her head to the side, put her hand to her mouth, and yelled, “Ivanović!”
Gorilla filled the doorway. “Yes?”
Sanchez pressed her lips tight together. She hadn't forgotten his
Frijolero
comment.
“Us girls,” Leticia said. “We're gonna take us a lil' trip. Wanna come?”
 
“Shit.” Sanchez ran her hands along the burled walnut console in between the rear captain's chairs in the Range Rover. “Friggin' car is nicer than my house.”
We were back at Ashland and Belmont, home of the unwashed and frowsy.
Leticia put her hand on Ivanović's bicep and squeezed as we neared A Peace of the Sixties. “Slow down. That's it. Their hidey-hole's under The Hemp House.”
Gorilla pulled into an alley. “What is tactical plan?”
Leticia and Sanchez looked at each other and shrugged.
Yeah, they have a plan, all right.
“Kick the friggin' door in and bust their asses!” Sanchez said.
“That's it?” I said.
Jaysus Criminey. I'm a fecking cop!
Leticia nodded. Gorilla shook his head. “That is not a plan.” He sighed and pointed at me. “She knocks on door. Asks for help. They open door. We go in, subdue. Call police.”
“You know it, Sanch!” Leticia said.
“Why does McGrane get to knock on the door?” Sanchez complained.
“Because she is only one that is not dangerous or in uniform,” Ivanović said. “You are certain they are there?”
“A safe bet.” I glanced at my watch. Eight twenty-five a.m. “Potheads aren't exactly early risers.”
No good will come of this.
Hoping to stave off far worse, I got out of the car.
Hank's Law Number Five: Make it look easy.
The others followed, Gorilla keeping them a suitable distance behind me. Cigarette butts, cans, wrappers, and some un-environmentally-conscious plastic bags with
The Hemp House
cluttered the sidewalk. I took the cement stairway to the basement apartment under the store and waited until Gorilla had Leticia and Sanchez in position.
The door was covered in peeling black paint with randomly plastered rainbow-colored
The Hemp House
stickers. I knocked on it, hard.
Nothing.
I turned to the gang and raised my shoulders. Sanchez jabbed a finger at me. I kicked the foot of the door. Hard.
“Maaan, do you know what time it is?” croaked a voice from behind the door. “Step back. So's I can see you.”
I stepped into peephole range.
“Uhhh. Girl? Do I know you?”
“Does it matter? I left my cell here like three days ago!” I kicked the door again. “Let me in!”
“Gahhhd. Chill.” He unfastened several locks and opened the door.
The first thing that went in was my boot. The smell of wet garbage and pot seeping out of the apartment was eye-watering.
“Ho-there, sister.” A skinny white guy with dreads wearing a greasy blanket poncho fingered his goatee. He stood in my way, his foot and leg behind the door. Maybe a weapon, too. This wasn't new to him. “I think you got us confused with somebody else.”
I heaved a world-weary sigh. “I just want my damn phone.”
“I'm like the resident pot hermit, and I ain't never seen you in—”
Gorilla dropped over the rails and kicked in the door. Dreads hit the floor, wind knocked out of him. We entered, Gorilla with gun drawn. Leticia and Sanchez burst in behind us.
I had my Kubotan out. No fecking way I was pulling my Kimber.
Not yet.
A guy in a dirty Warhol-styled Mao tee struggled to sit up from the couch. Assorted bongs and a vaporizer covered the coffee table.
Leticia fanned a hand in front of her face. “Damn, this place smells like ass!”
Gorilla and I left the two guys to Leticia and Sanchez. We went through the three bedrooms and bathroom, rousting and rounding up three more men.
“On couch!” Ivanović barked, motioning with his gun with one hand, grabbing a guy by the neck and shoving him with the other.
They did as they were told. There'd be no stand for pride. That had been lost long ago.
“Do you know who we are, motherbitches?” Sanchez demanded.
Mao picked up a pair of trendy black-rimmed glasses from a milk crate end table and put them on. “Oh fuck . . . Meter maids? Hey, how 'bout everybody take it easy.” Mao scratched his arm nervously, flashing a Gucci watch and needle tracks. “Smoke a bowl while we talk this shit out, you know? Plenty to go round, man.”
His parents supported his major in World Cultural Pluralism. Now they're supporting his heroin habit.
Sanchez got right in his face. “Asswipe! Don't you open your fucking mouth again! You wanna throw eggs at me? You think thas some funny shit?”
Mao curled into the couch arm.
Sanchez kicked Dreads in the shin. “Leticia!” she yelled over her shoulder. “Open that fridge, see if they got any eggs, yo!”
But Leticia had passed through the galley kitchen. “McGrane, get in here!”
I threaded my way through the beyond-disgusting kitchen into a tidy dining nook.
Leticia pointed at the dining nook wall, which held five hooks, each with a green hoodie with red feather. “They think they some mofo superheroes. Stupid-ass suburbials.”
The nook held a rectangular dining table and chairs. Plastic bins, neat and orderly, contained checks, money orders, bank receipts, and envelopes at one end. At the other, reams of paper that were actually self-folding envelopes.
The header had a mouse wearing a hoodie beneath a Robin Hood–style hat, holding a bow. Across the page, his arrow was stuck in the coin slot of an expired parking meter. Beneath the cartoon was a message in hokey Ye Olde English type.
Greetings Kind Traveler,
Our faire city is rife with rascals out to rob the poor and penitent. But we bow down before no man. We fight not for glory nor wealth, but for freedom alone.
In other words, we saved ye from a vile and unjust parking fine. Huzzah!
Please send us half your parking fine, so we can continue to rail against the tyranny and oppression of limited parking.
Huzzah!
Robin McHoodie and his Merry Men
Leticia came up behind me and picked up a container of a dozen rubber stamps and ink pads. “Each addressed to different P.O. boxes.”
The average expired meter fine was sixty dollars.
This wasn't a little operation. This was thousands of dollars. City dollars.
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
Shite.
“This ain't little, is it?” Leticia grinned.
“Nope,” I said. “Aggravated Battery of Government Employees, Obstruction of Governmental Administration. Class 1 Felony fraud. Class 4 Felony marijuana possession. And more.”
Much, much more.
She put an arm around my shoulder. “Here's what we're gonna do, McGrane. You're gonna call your brother, have him come in here, and make the bust. I'm gonna call the local news.”
“No media, Leticia. Seriously. I need five minutes, and Ivanović and I can't be here when Cash shows up.”
“Thas cool.” She gave a shimmy of delight. “Sanchez and I can get our story straight.” She leaned away from me. “Yo, Sanchez. Tape 'em up!”
I walked outside, ignoring the whining and moaning of the Robin McHoodies and the unmistakable tearing sound of duct tape.
Cripes. I'm a Chicago police officer.
I called Cash.
He answered on the third ring. “Whassup, Snap?”
“I need a favor.”
“How big?”
“Massive.” I took a deep breath and explained.
“You'll need me
and
Koji.” He snorted. “Jaysus feckin' Christ, how do you—”
“Cash, we're talking five drug addicts duct-taped in an apartment. I don't know how dangerous they are, but they're wily.”
“This is gonna cost you . . .”
“I know. I know. I know. Anything.”
“No, Maisie,” Cash said, ominously. “It's going to cost you
everything
.”
 
Gorilla and I pulled away as Cash and Koji rolled up in separate cars.
He hadn't let me move to the front seat, but he appeared quite chipper. A date with Leticia and scaring the hell out of five spoiled druggies put a spring in his step.
And I was opportunistic enough to take advantage. “Will you please to take me to see my uncle Edward?”
“Why does this Edward not come to see you at Mr. Renko's apartment?”
“He has dementia. Silverthorn Estates is hospital apartment living—doctors and nurses watch over him.”
Still in the throes of passion, Gorilla grunted his assent and drove me to the assisted living facility.

Other books

Game Control by Lionel Shriver
Dog Collar Couture by Adrienne Giordano
Need Us by Amanda Heath
Politically Incorrect by Jeanne McDonald
The Pilgrim Song by Gilbert Morris
Presagio by Jorge Molist
Tipping the Balance by Koehler, Christopher